Life Sketches by Terry Berkson

Yellow Submarine Haunts Coney Island Creek

On the eastern edge of Gravesend Bay, just at the mouth of the Coney Island Creek in Brooklyn, New York, there lies a makeshift graveyard for old barges, scows, pleasure boats and other decrepit vessels. Occasionally, at low tide, an unusual shape can be seen protruding from the water near the wrecks. It is that of a submarine’s conning tower. The sub, swept by storms and high tides, has been popping up at various sites in the area for more than 20 years. The faded yellow paint that still clings to some of the metal identifies the vessel as the once dream-laden Yellow Submarine.

Back in 1963, Jerry Bianco, who had worked in the Brooklyn Navy Yard and at other marine construction sites for more than 25 years, had a brainstorm. He thought of a way that he could salvage the Andrea Doria, a luxury liner that went down off Nantucket after colliding with the Swedish ship Stockholm on July 25, 1956. The Andrea Doria was known to be bountifully loaded with such diverse items as a $250,000.00 solid silver statue of a mermaid, thousands of cases of liquor, tons of provolone cheese, the ship’s $6 million metal scrap value and more.

According to Bianco, “Up to that time no ship of comparable size had ever been reclaimed from the sea.”

The result of previous efforts made by several well-funded organizations to raise the Andrea Doria were one diver dead and several divers stricken with carbon dioxide poisoning.

Undaunted by these failures, Bianco dreamed of building a submarine strong enough to withstand the pressures under the 240 feet of water where the crippled ship lay. With the use of a cannon-like hydraulic tube extending from his sub, Bianco would penetrate the sunken vessel and fire inflatable dunnage bags into the ship’s hull. The bags would disconnect when filled. When enough bags had been shot into the Andrea Doria, she would rise. Skeptics wrote the idea off as a pipe dream. After all, if large organizations weren’t successful, how could one man with little experience and less money be successful?

He began work in 1966 raising money for the expensive equipment and materials needed by forming a corporation, Deep Sea Techniques, and selling stock over the counter at a dollar a share. Friends, neighbors, local police and firemen all bought into his dream of raising treasure from the ocean.

Bianco did the designing and most of the welding himself but also employed workers as needed and money allowed. One had to be a dreamer as well as a gambler to put faith in a captain who had never piloted a sub before.

After four years of hard work, a 40-foot, 83-ton Yellow Submarine squatted beneath The Burns Bros. Coal silos on the shores of the Coney Island Creek ready to be launched.

“I painted it yellow because the yellow zinc chromate paint was the cheapest I could find,” said Bianco. “The name Yellow Submarine really caught on, but it had nothing to do with the Beatles.”

Bianco said the vessel passed coast guard inspection with flying colors and a $5,000.00 examination by the Navy rated the sub as capable of withstanding pressures at depths of 600 feet. When the boat was completed, the stock soared to $4.75 a share. At the time of launching, Deep Sea Techniques had $300,000.00 invested in the 5/8-inch steel alloy-plated Yellow Submarine.

Finally, on October 19, 1970 the sub was ready to be launched. Bianco’s daughter, Patricia, broke a bottle of champagne across the bow before a giant crane lowered the craft into the creek. The launching expense was calculated by the pound, so to save money, Bianco, with the aid of friends and stockholders, had removed by the pail full, the ballast, which was made up of steel slugs, from one side of the boat. A large crowd of supporters, skeptics and the media were on hand to witness the event.

Bianco had instructed the crane engineer not to lower the sub completely into the water because he knew that with the ballast removed from only one side, the boat would list severely. Unfortunately, the engineer let the vessel down too low and she rolled onto her starboard side as cameras clicked and people laughed and jeered from the shore. Bianco was devastated.

“I felt like throwing that crane operator into the creek,” he said. “The sub couldn’t be raised again to correct the tilt because it had turned in the sling and would be held in that position when lifted.”

From that point on the value of the stock seemed to sink like a lead banana.

“Even after we put the ballast back,” said Bianco, “and the sub sat level, people didn’t show the same confidence as they did before.”

To regain credibility, Bianco raised a sunken 44-foot yacht to demonstrate his method but his campaign to rekindle enthusiasm was smitten by investor pessimism.

The submarine remained at its mooring for several years even though the rent wasn’t being paid. One wrathful day Bianco found that a hatch and some interior gauges and other hardware had been stolen. Then, in 1981 the sub broke away in a storm and he thought it was lost until a low tide revealed that it had drifted out toward Norton’s Point off of Sea Gate.

“Building that boat was one of the happiest times in my life,” said Bianco, as he momentarily looked toward the sub’s old launching site. “I still think my idea would’ve worked. I could’ve been on easy street. I think it would work even today.”

Now, the once hope-laden Yellow Submarine springs to the surface from time to time—like an eternal dream.

Terry Berkson’s articles have appeared in “New York” magazine, “Automobile” magazine and many others. His memoir, “Corvette Odyssey,” has received many good reviews: “highly recommended with broad appeal,” says “Library Journal.”